HoUinger Corp. 
pH 8.5 



^S 2196 
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Copy I 



Ghei?ries 



FROM A 



Young Tree 



Herr Cherry-Tree. 




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COPYRIGHT 
E^T. KIRSCHBAUM. 



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PREFACE. 



That the all too patient public have cause to 
complain over the superabundancy of versifica- 
tions, " goes without saying;" that I should add 
another ingredient to the dose already indigest- 
ible, suggests no little inconsideration on my part, 
and which must preface the preparation as obnox- 
ious. 

But the truth of it is, I have got tired of light- 
ing the fire with similar productions — melan- 
choly, over the fact that my dog should show 
such a fondness for chewing them up ; — and 
determined that the rag-man shall suffer no longer 
by like destructions, but be ''in at the death " a 
little later on. 

Herr Cherrytree. 



THE ANSWERED PRAYER. 



I will ask you to go with me up three 

Flights of stairs ; — they are steep, rickety, 

And it seems a long way up, but we soon * 

Get to the top, and doing so we 

Will enter a small attic chamber : 

The moon has arrived just ahead of us 

And its silvery beams come pouring in 

At the shattered window ; — in one corner 

Of the room a youth is lying, hidden 

Partially from view by a few ragged 

Coverings ; at the other end of the 

Room sits a poor wayworn looking creature. 

Her eyes red with weeping and fixed upon 

The feeble blaze of a few dying embers ; 

And this is what she says : — " My prayer 

Is answered ! that eternal prayer has 

Been that I might see my darling boy close 

His eyes in death, ere it stung this withered 

Frame, and when death shall force its way upon 

This lingering life I can welcome it 

In peace, thinking at my dying hour that 

I have not left an idiot to face 

This cruel, heartless world, and I shall meet 

My little family at the fireside 

Of an eternal home !" " How well do I 

Remember the day when all my trials 

Vanished and Heaven seemed to smile on my 

Little home ; when I was thanking God for 

His most bountiful gifts, the door of this 

Room slowly opened and strange men entered, 

Bearing in their arms my little boy ! they 

Soothed my sobs, by telling me he could not 

Live, that he had been hit by a stone which 

Would make an idiot of him — a helpless 

Burden to a poverty-stricken mother !" 

He brought no words of comfort to my careworn 



Head, he gave no helping hand to my dreary 

Work, yet I will miss him ; — he was my boy ! 

And, I will miss him when the village 

Bells toll the Sabbath hour, as he took his 

Little Bible in his hand and his steps 

Led him to the neighboring church, there crouched 

In some far off corner, he would sit and 

Look with wonder on its golden edges ; 

And when the service was ended he would 

Come running down the lane in his foolish 

Glee ; — his earthly life is past, and now perhaps 

Each truth bound beneath those golden edges, 

Momently reveals itself to a happy, 

Sinless mind !" "And when the cares of this world 

Shall crowd about my weary head and dark 

Clouds overshadow my life, one thought will 

Linger with me still to break the threatening 

Mist ; as he lay dying on this damp, cold 

Floor, and I held his aching head, though it 

Were forbidden him to speak with sense, yet 

His face bore a calm and thankful smile ; and 

As I have often beckoned to him at 

The twilight hour, may he soon beckon to 

Me when I shall turn the last bend in the 

Road of life !" I, the only mourner, will 

Follow the pauper's hearse as it wends its 

Way slowly to the church-yard, where flowers 

Bloom and fade, where crickets chirp their vespers. 



THE BEGGAR'S VESPER. 

The last rays of the setting sun were falHng 

In the attic of a nearly deserted 

Dwelling ; an old man is sitting by the 

Window looking out upon the market 

Place. I cannot look upon his withered 

Frame and whitened hair, without thinking that 

His life with the sun is setting, and now 

Its rays are faintly glimmering — Clumsy 

Falls a tread upon the hollow sounding 

Stairs, a smile flits across the old man's face. 

And his eyes, though dimmed with age, sparkle in 

Youthful glow ; the door opens and a little 

Cripple hobbles into the room. Her face 

Is familiar, for I have seen her plodding 

Her way home from school, never joining the 

Sports of her playmates. The vesper bells had 

Now commenced their evening chimes, and these children, 

One a child with God, the other with man, 

Were listening to their evening hymns ; — " My child. 

For us the vesper bells have chimed their evening 

Hymns, and this pie isant silence, that steals upon 

Us, with the shadows of the night, is our 

Silent Prayer ! — let us, as they within 

The distant church, bow in silent reverence 

To one Divine, and the little cripple 

Knelt upon the floor with her hands fervently 

Clasped, gave her the aspect of an angel. 

As the western hills glowed in their sunset 

Garb, so her thoughts glowed in the invisible 

Garb of happiness : the old man awoke 

From his dreaming thoughts to look with pleasure 

Upon the little wayfarer that knelt 

Beside him, but now the curtain of night 

Has shielded them from our view and casts from 

Its folds of darkness the needful sleep. 



THE RENEGADE. 



1 



Scene : —A wood ; Philip, the Sachem, is sitting near a few blaz- 
ing fagots, seeming in deep thought : by his side sleeps his little 



Beneath yon nighted shades, sleep the remnant 
Of my little band ; — encamped where death is 
Sentry. Ah ! the sainted ones of creed have 
Else than befooled me, our homes are laid waste, 
Our pleasant camp-fires treacherous comforts ! 
My tattered force, strewn like the autumn leaves, 
And, as the naked shrub yields to the storm. 
So, I must bow to their prosperous sway. 
The Indian hath sheltered those who have 
Made him homeless ! Ah ! he hop'd for those, who 
Have filled him with despair ! he welcom'd those 
To whom he bids no farewell ; aye ! curs' d be 
They, who like the viper seem to fondle, 
Yet, move with deadly aim ! Night, has thrown its 
Cloak about me, and ere it be too late 
I must scan our darksome way. 

(As he is about to leave, the Renegade 
enters, wasted and wayworn.) 
Alas ! what 
Evil spirit hath led thee to this wood ? 

Renegade : 
The spirit of Revenge ! 

Philip : 

Miscreant ! is 
Not my wretched lot enough to move thy 
Harden'd heart, or hath a fifth sense ne'er been 
Quoted in thy frame ? 

Renegade : 

Dolt ? thy prating tongue 
Doth flatter thee ! the name fool quests pity ; 
Benighted is he that gives thee such ; thou 
Hast slain my brother ! gloat filled thine eyes as 



They watched the blood that flow'd from his youthful 
Form ; he who would invoke the blessings of 
Peace ; and thou did'st smote him to the earth, aye, 
Leaving him for the raven's meal ! But one 
More like the just than thee, laid him beneath 
The woodland's turf, where the cypress bends in 
Mournful attitude and the rustling leaves 
Alone pay heed to his sepulchre : I 
Come to avenge the wronged ! 

Philip : 

As the wayworn 
Traveller greets the nearing hut, so I 
Welcome the approach of death ! the resistive 
Abode, that dawns in peaceful aspect at 
The bend of life. Long have I baffl'd the 
White man ; longer, I cannot oppose ; my 
Heart is sad, my spirit broken ; like the 
Wounded doe, I seek the quiet inlet, 
But my blood betrays me. Traitor ! ! my breast 
Is bare. 

Renegade : 
How with thy brat ? Dost hear the cries 
That plead for thy return ? Know'st thou that the 
Light of civilization will be to 
Him an Ignis Fatuus? from its circling 
Depths never can he retreat. 

Philip : 

Faithless wretch ! 
As thou has belied the blood that suckl'd 
Thee, so may that, which thou dost foster, meet 
Thee likewise ! 

(The boy has awakened and recognizing 

the Renegade, runs to his side.) 

Oh ! God ! he greets thy coming. 
Ah ! it seems as though it were of yester 
Noon, that he played upon thy knee ; that his 
Hand was clasped about thy neck ; O ! death ! bid 
The poor sachem pass within that camp, where 
Sleep soothes the troubl'd head and rests the weary 
Fugitive ! 



8 

Renegade : 
Ha ! that scene doth gall my soul ! 

Memory ! thou conscientious blab, would'st 

Balk me here? tut, this is nature's whim. Brat, 

Away ! thy presence would make an oaf of 

Me. Murderer ! we are quits, when this blade 

Shall find its sheath within thy heart. 

(He rushes upon him : they fight : Philip 
falls fatally wounded : his child runs to 
him, Philip grasps his knife and stabs 
him as the Renegade is about to tear 
him away.) 

Fooled? Ah! 

Flesh, thou drudge to the thought, I would give thee 

Liberty ; — could it be in death ? the night 

To all, wherein the sleeper need not turn 

His pillow o'er ; Alas ! should I in the 

Stead of peace find a hell : whither then my 

Soul ? Ah ! presuming tenant of this mortal 

Dwelling ! I cast thee out ! thou art to all 

A stranger, yet, death will take thee in. 

(Stabs himself.) 



MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY. 

Scene :— The gateway of Heaven ;— the guard arousing from 
sleep. 

The Guard: 
Heyday ! no one here ! incomparable ! 
Never before has such occurred with me ; 
Methinks the fair Mors has been negligent, 
Or, some, perhaps, have passed unobserved. It 
Is true I slept soundly ; and yet, the jar 
Of the gate usually awakens 
Me : I'll see ; Ah ! who's that, his maneuvers 
Are unfamiliar, (Beckons to some one on the inside,) 
Hither ! with thyself! 



(Enter John Calvin through the gate,) 
I would see thy pass ! 

John Calvin: 

I am without such, 
I neglected to obtain one upon 
M}^ arrival. 

The Guard: 

Sneaking it, hey? 
John Calvin : 

Sir? I 
Found thee asleep when I came, and seeming 
So weary, that I would have awakened 
Thee against my own conscience ; and thinking 
That I should meet with some who knew me, I 
Entered to find every thing very strange ! 

The Gtiard : 
Truly ! who art thou, that thou should'st have the 
Audacity to take such upon thyself? 
This is the gate of Heaven ! 

John Calvin : 

I am John 
Calvin ; — more, he who has serviced life for 
The master ; I am the founder of the 
Baptist faith ! 

The Guard: 

Enter, pass upon the left, 
This will admit thee to thy abiding. 
(After giving check, J. C. passes through gate.) 
Methinks that fellow must have scaled the wall, 
I perceived a tear upon his breeches. 
Ah ! why here gospel monger? 

(Enter Mr. Illhumored, with Bible under his arm, who 
meekly discloses himself.) 

Mr. Illhumored: 

Verily ! 
I am a preacher of the blessed word, 
I have attended church since the first day 
I adorned short clothes ; I have with me praise- 
Worthy remarks of my ability 
To fill the pastorate of the Methodist 
Creed ; I have nightly prayed for the sceptic, 



lO • 

The heathen, and have visited sisters 

Of my flock when ill inclined ; I 

Am very amiable, although my 

Name bespeaks the reverse ; I plead therefore I 

The Guard: 
Have done ! prattler ! and pass upon the right ; 
At the farther end of the domicile 
You will perceive the name signifying 
Thy sect ; this check will admit thee ; hold no 
Conversation with those whom you may meet 
On the way, for they are members of the 
Jury and are now out on a case ; Oh ! 

(Exit Mr. Illhumored.) 
Dear ! I am sick of this business ; I have 
Grown poor since I have held the position ; — 
Spiritual food may be a healthy 
Diet, but never sates my appetite. 

(Singing within.) 
There ! he is welcome on the beautiful 
Shore ; Ah ! that confounded hymn has duped me 
Of more rest than it has the Devil of 
Souls: Ha! (Enter a poor trembling Indian.) 

What unsightly thing is this ? so 
Trembling ! who art thou and what hast thou done 
That ihou should'st look for entrance here? what thy 
Creed ? have out thy say ! 

The Indian : 

/have done nothing ! 
I have no creed ! I am uncivilized ! 
Untaught ! wild ! I am an indian ! 
Yet, I believe in the " Great Spirit." 
The Guard: 

Get 
Thee in ! and where thou art disposed to go, 
So goest thou ; Heaven is wide to thee. 



II 
THE RABBIT HUNTER. 



I am a great rabbit hunter 

And noiseless on the tread ; 
My dog, he is a cooler, 

A perfect thoroughbred ! 

My gun, 'tis made of finest tin, 
When others I cannot borrow, 

And just the same through thick or thin 
The rabbits yell with sorrow ! 

'Twas yesterday we struck a track 
And followed it for half a mile, 

And when we came up to the scratch 
We found we'd only struck "a smile.' 

For there in the bushes so neat 
Lay a pint of the hunter's kit ; 

And but for my protruding feet, 
Dog included, we'd had a rare-bit ! 



A RAILROAD CROSSING. 

There is a railroad crossing, 

Not very far away ! 
And the signal gives the warning 

At night and break of day, 

" Lookout " is the word that's given 
On the towering post at hand. 

And your chances are about even 
For the happier, better land ! 

For they are always running 

At an ever heedless rate. 
And the public in travelling 

Are simply making them great ! 

And when you're at the crossing, 
In the dark hours of night, 

Take a yankee for guessing, 
The bell will not be right ! 



12 



But the expresses will be coming-, 
With their loads of human freight ! 

And the bell will do its ringing, 
When it is all too late ! 

Now it is only a question, 
And to their great delight, 

When we give them the signal 
And furnish them the Hght 1 

And when in the near future 

You are obliged to cross, 
A red light is the feature 

On the nose of your horse ! 



PURGATORY. 

We visited the place to-day, 
Where a rumored hell is found ; — 

We roamed along its rugged way 
But saw no Devil around. 

We sat upon the great high rocks 

That look the chasm o'er. 
But saw none of his puny flocks 

And heard no streams of gore. 

We threw him crackers by the bunch, 
With a lighted fuse on each ; — 

And had he really craved a lunch. 
We were food within his reach ! 

We left our names to catch his sight 
And sauced him at his cave ; — 

And when he goes down home to-night 
I know he'll wildly rave. 

But I'm sure he was not there ; 

Does he get his beer at " Plympt's ?" 
If so we passed his fabled mare 

With two of his drunken imps. 



13 



A NEW FOWL-PIECE. 



Of sensations rich and rare 

I have one to relate, 
And though it started quite a scare, 

It justly took the cake. 

About a noisy little pug 

That started well the town, 
By getting all his daily grub 

In running chickens down. 

He killed his neighbor's one by one, 

The rest got up and fled ; — 
And when he saw what he had done 

He merely scratched his head ! 

The neighbor he came home 

To find his breeders dead, 
When he sat down upon a stone 

And likewise scratched his head ! 

The dog looked back and saw him there, 
Shaking his troubled pate ; — 

When up he went into the air, 
Just where, I can't relate. 

The owner hunted for his Ben 
And talked of war and peace, 

But Ben had met a different hen 
And skipped with a new fowl-piece. 



14 



ONLY A BRAKEMAN. 

These are words we hear every day 
As we pass the crossing gate, 

Only a brakeman over the way, 
Killed by the down coming freight. 

Only a brakeman, that is all I 

Lying dead on our coal-house floor ; — 
In answer to the whistle's call 

A member of the down-brakes corps ! 

Only a coroner, that is all ! 

Attending now the final rites ; — 
Only a brakeman, that is all ! 

That he in his diary writes. 

Only a home, forever gone I 

Only a face, forever sad ! 
This is the railroad's daily song 

As they wave their blood colored flag. 

Only a stock-holder, that is all ! 

Counting now his worldly gains — 
Who reads not of the brakeman' s fall 

Nor feels his terrible pains — 

Only a company, getting rich ! 

In an undertaker's style. 
With a life for every switch 

And funeral for every mile ! 

Only a God, that is all ! 

President of the finest line — 
Where none smash up, nor brakemen fall. 

And they make their regular time. 

Only justice, that is all ! 

Final statement of railroad gains, 
When dividends take the fall 

And stock-holders divide the pains. 



15 



THE MILL ON THE DAMN-SIDE. 

A corporation skirts the town, 

Polluting every germ of health 
By hiring children scarcely grown, 

While they speed on toward wealth. 

The mill suggests ! the curse survives ! 

Of slaving children for their gain ; 
While social law protects their lives 

And boldly will their rights sustain. 

The notice hangs within their doors, 

But only for the blind to read, 
For this is what they tell their boys, 

If they to sixty hours agreed. 

A lock is on this prison door, 
A watch is stationed at the gate, 

They care not for the ten hour law 
And spurn the orders of our State ! 

They'd hire our babes when first they creep, 
If they could spin the twisting thread ; — 

They figure only what is cheap 
And know the need is daily bread ! 

Our town is small, but well awake 

To an illegal glass of beer ;— 
And well offenders know their fate 

When they attempt the traffic here. 

The mill still here polluting thrives, 

Defiant to all posted laws ! 
And children more will slave their lives 

Before they'll fear the eagle's claws ! 

The mill still rules ! the curse survives ! 

'Tis twisted in their very thread, 
'Twill spool upon their moneyed lives 

And follow them when they are dead ! 



i6 



THE BROKEN VASE. 

Beside yon humbly mounded grave, 
Wherein some form now lowly lies, 

A broken vase imparts the love, 
That a withered flower implies ! 

The sweetness of its dying blush 
Has sought a milder atmosphere, 

And Hke the soul that leaves the dust 
To move within another sphere. 

The grave is but the broken vase 

Wherein we place the treasured gem, 

To meet with that mysterious fate 
That claims a wisdom over men ! 

Lone inmate of this shaded spot. 
The solitude of death is thine ! 

I, too, some day will share thy lot 
And but await unfolding time. 

The churchyard gloom shall then be mine, 
O ! will some stranger gently place 

A fragrant blooming jessamine 
Within my stained and broken vase ! 

That it may stop some passer-by 
To look upon its wilted sedge. 

And think as I have learned to sigh 
The fragrance of its life is fled. 



17 



THE DEATH OF THEODORE BEANE. 

There's a footprint for the purest snow, 
A death-knock for the sHghted door ; — 

There's a rough impression of sorrow 
That each heart alone must endure. 

Each hearthstone has its dying ember, 
That lingers on with feeble glow ; — 

Each fireside its elder member 
That while others stay it must go. 

And thus 'tis those that dying leave us, 
That light the pathway to the goal, 

That otherwise would seem treacherous, 
To the weary wandering soul ! 

For death, like the snow that's falling 

On this cheerless wintry day. 
Is with its mission hastening 

Hopeful spring on her joyous way. 



MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

I stood beside the place to-day 

And looked upon the grass grown mound. 
Wherein my dear, good mother lay, 

At rest in death, asleep profound ! 

I lingered long beside the grave, 
The essential spot, the chiseled stone ;— 

With heavy heart respectfully paid, 
I left as I had come, alone ! 

But with each step there seemed to come, 
A spirit quite along the street ; — 

That brought to mind my dear old home. 
Now gone ! forever obsolete ! 



I tried my mind to occupy, 

With thoughts of far different mood ; 
But the spirit seemed forever by, 

Hasten or linger as I would. 

I leaned against the old stone wall 
And brushed the tell-tale tears away, 

Filled with a more fervent resolve 
That I would do her will next day. 

And the haunt seemed to have left me, 
As I journeyed my way along ; — 

New thoughts now came up before me 
And gave the finish to my song. 



THE GOLDEN SHELL. 

A little maid wanders by the sea, 

Gathering golden shells for me ; — 

Filling her pretty pinafore 

Heedless of the waves that wet her o'er 

Her limbs are graced in nature's hose, 

Her hair is like the shells in glow. 

Ah ! she hath passed, to come no more. 

No, though I saunter o'er and o'er, 

The sands will ne'er again relate 

That I have tarried, I am late ; — 

Yet I too shall go her way. 

Oh ! should it seem like one dark day. 

Void of a light to guide me on. 

Oh ! faith, wilt thou be ever strong? 

And let me take her golden shell, 

To know that it may only tell, 

Of her who has gone before ! 

Who leaves me wandering on the shore. 



19 



BEN AND MA. * 

The service was ending, 

The hat was going round ; — 

And the coins falling 
Gave a musical sound. 

It was up to the banker, 
At his ease giving hand ; — 

And he mortgaged a bumper 
On the promising land ! 

And his handsome daughter, 
With her queenly smile, 

Had folded another 
For the carpeted aisle. 

But the deacon, bowing, 

Passed on his way ; 
While a kid sat pointing 

Where the fiver lay ! 

Still, with assuming grace, 
The deacon held the hat, 

'Till he came face to face 
Before the anxious brat. 

And nearly bending in two 
Lending his abler ear. 

He leaned far over the pew 
That he'd distinctly hear. 

" You dropped a fiver, * Snell,' 
The seventh pew beyond ; 

I saw it as it fell. 
It came from Mister Pond." 

Straightway the aisle he went 
To where the fiver lay ;— 

And when he his body bent 
A voice came : " let us pray. 



20 . 

And there to the kid's delight, 

Not daring to stand up, 
Deacon held the fiver tight — 

Another "V" he cut ! 

The mother could no longer bear, 
She made those pants for Ben ; — 

A well placed grip, an awfi.il tear, 
And then the chant, Amen ! 

The congregation they filed out, 
While Ben and ma they stayed behind, 

For ma had been a trifle stout 
And pantaloons are seldom lined. 



MISS GOSSIP. 

My maiden name is Gossip 
And I've had many a chance ; 

But I would never swop it — 
Not at the very first glance. 

No, I prefer to remain single 

Just as long as I can, 
If my tongue is in the middle 

I wouldn't be a man ! 

I know I'm not invited 

To the entertainment of ours ; 
But even if I'm slighted 

/know who keeps these late hours. 

There's that silly Miss so-and-so, 

With all her airy airs ; 
/knew she went to see " Zozo," 

And had orchestra chairs. 



21 



Why, and look at that new dress, 
With its astonishing plait ! 

Now isn't it enough to distress 
Those who try to look neat? 

Why, if she was my daughter 
And I had anything to say ! 

Now you know, I'd just walk her 
In a promising way. 

They say I'm a great talker 
And heaping full of gad ; — 

And because she isn't my daughter 
I am terribly mad. 

Gracious Lord ! do you suppose 
That I'd have a man about? 

Well, no ! not for all the clothes 
This here town could turn out. 

Ah ! isn't that a stranger ? 

Why, who else can it be ? 
What an awful neat stepper, 

I'll just go out and see. 

I never was so mistaken, 
Who do you suppose 'tis? 

Why, it's that young Mister Chapin 
Without that beard of his. 

Oh ! I'm in such a flutter, 

These wicked, thoughtless men ! 
They don't care how they start yer, 

But they'l never say "when." 



22 



MY INVITATION. 



I've had an invitation 

To a very swell affair ; — 
And my basket of provision 

Entitles me a chair. 

'Twill be a selected social 

For only a chosen few, 
But in the grand old total 

I shall be there with both feet, too. 

For we are the people 
And distinct from the rest, 

As the methodist steeple 
Is like Bartholdi's best. 

Oh ! society is the stuff, 

Especially in a little town ; — 

I say it's a game of bluff 
Played only by a clown ! 

Now remember this timely tip 
And take it with you home ; — 

Village eyes are sizing it, 
'Tis for all, not you alone. 

But thinking of that invitation. 
That finally comes to all — 

Of that grand association 
Where God alone will call ! 

Will you be among the chosen 

Selected with the few ? 
Assessors they are holden 

To keep the records true. 

For there we'll have society, 
Without the silk and satin flounce. 

And cod-fish aristocracy, 
Will surely get the bounce. 



23 



THE ESCAPE. 

Dying in a prison ward 

A wounded convict lay ; 
His head pillowed by a pard 

Who wore the prison grey. 

Just at his side a letter, 

Begrimmed by frequent care, 

And in his cell the jailer 
Sat, in the only chair. 

A little pet canary, 

Though doubly caged by fate, 
Was singing sweet and cheery 

Within the walls so great. 

I am dying, he would say, 
To shield another's wrong, 

Wondering he passed the day, 
At night his soul was gone. 

And before he breathed his last 

He rose up in his bed ; — 
With his eyes a setting fast 

In broken accents said : 

" I'm going ' Pard !'— I'm going ! 

I've scaled the wall this time, 
I hear the guards, they're firing 

Along the watchful line !" 

" Say ' Pard !' they'll be suspended ! 

They're shooting wide to-night ;"— 
And here his soul ascended 

From darkness into light ! 



24 



OUR VILLAGE. 

Our thriving village you will find, 
Within great W r's wide domain 

And though in size we're far behind, 
We take a place in point of fame. 

We are a fly-speck of a place, 
Surrounded by great wooded hills ; — 

Where wind and gossip daily race 
And neighbors know each other's ills. 

'Twas here great Belcher came in state. 

With title for the infant town ; — 
While Indians with surplus great 

Were lining out the new sold ground. 

And now we note our present age, 
When woods give way to stately homes ; 

And iron rails surpass the stage, 
Connecting us with many zones. 

We have our schools and churches too. 
Where godly words do not attract ; — 

For empty most is every pew. 
While rabbits they can swear to that. 

We have our great societies, 
Where morals they alone exist ; — 

And none have improprieties, 
As our history will insist. 

We have our big and little men, 

Who used to do the town with paint ; — 

But now, they all get in at ten 
Or put up with their wife's complaint. 

We have our wills and law disputes. 
Where honest bills will scarcely hold ; — 

And few succeed with good reputes 
While flip and forward stalk the bold. 



1 



25 

We have our air-gun gallery, 

A banker for our tid-bit change ; — 

With target nailed beneath the tree 
And trains on wing for finer range. 

We have our corner grocery shop, 
Where villagers will nightly gad ; — 

To take their share of home-brewed hop 
And really prove it's not so bad. 

We used to have a big brass band. 
That filled the night with mad refrains ;— 

But cats were soon to leave the land, 
And cracked became our window panes. 

We have our slim and buxom girls. 
Who think they put the town to sleep ; — 

Who spread broadcast the latest frills 
And really make us obsolete. 

In fact we share our worldly fame 
Like other towns within the State ; — 

I fain would give our proper name, 
But we are quite N G of late. 



OUR EPIDEMIC. 



An epidemic 's in the town, 

That baffles local skill ; — 
And but for one of great renown 

We'd all be very ill. 

A sort of craze has struck the place, 

A seeming ill at ease ; — 
And though deplorable the case 

We have no real disease. 

If we were really, truly sick, 
Our own physician he would do ; — 

But if our heart should beat too quick, 
His cure, alone, can bring us to. 



26 



For that requires a man of skill, 

A doctor of great renown ! 
Who gives soft soap with every pill 

And is helping all the town. 

Everybody is on his book, 
With special calls for each ; — 

His office is a cozy nook 
With very shady street. 

And the latest acquisition. 

Is one of Hermit fame, 
Who finds that this Physician 

Can cure Rheumatic pain. 

He takes us out to ride at times. 

To prove the need of air ; — 
He pulls the wool o'er blind men's eyes, 

But bald heads have no hair. 

Our little town is all agog, 
With gossips old and young ; — 

And what a business he would have 
If he only had a son. 

A son to pat us on the back 

And call us young again ; — 
Who would care when they came back 

Or how about the train ! 

By deeds of skill he made his fame. 
And on this " rep " he takes the cash 

And sick or well, it's just the same, 
You need medicinal hash ! 

Let us hope that he'll survive, 

And help us all he knows, 
For none would care to stay alive 

If up should go his toe^,. 

But should our Lord attend his case 

And prescribe for his ills ; — 
May he remember with what grace 

He took our dollar bills ! 



27 



THE PUBLIC GIVER. 

I am a great public giver, 

On the European plan, 
That is, the gracious receiver 

Must say /am the man ! 

Now, in the city of W r, 

To the cream of the town, 

If I am a fair reader 

He gave a million down ! 

For the handsomest college 
That the money could build. 

For the advancement of knowledge 
To the very well filled ! 

But not for the poor and studious, 
Who are without the means. 

But for the rich and luxurious 
Who wallow in gleams. 

For the poor can never enter 
That great bronzen door ! 

It is only for the scholar 
With his volumes of lore. 

And the name of the giver 
Will be chiseled in stone ! 

As a fitting reminder 
And for the deed alone. 

The poor are still hungry ! 

The sick are in bed ! 
But heed not the needy 

And feed the well fed ! 

And in your donation 

If to make a big spread, 
A college is the notion 

For it stands when you're dead ! 



28 



AT NEWPORT CLIFFS. 

I stood at night upon the diffs 
That sternly face the Newport sea ; — 

And watched the breakers rolHng in, 
And heard their wild, sad minstrelsy. 

The moon was in its splendor bright. 
Its pale light falling on the sea, 

That leaped and pounced among the crags 
That moved to sway in melody. 

Above my head the palace soared, 
Below me stood the fisher's cot ; 

I saw the scene that favored both 
And felt the wisdom that it taught. 



4 



I sit by my window and listen, 
To the sweetly chiming bells ; 

And their melody seems to christen 
My soul with woundrous spells. 

And now I gaze upon the moonlight, 
As it fills the street below ; — 

Mirroring fair and happy faces 
And many full sad with woe. 

For now, I see a pleading vagrant, 

Who vainly asks for bread — 
As she totters along the pavement 

Wishing ! wishing ! to be dead. 

Oh ! chimes, sweet with music to my ear, 
Move her to better things below ; — 

And teach as well the mighty million 
Good and better deeds to show. 



29 



ODE TO A MOSQUITO. 

Vain minstrel of the evening train 
There is no charm within thy strain, 
And why persisting wilt thou play 
To me, who care not for thy lay? 

Away ! disturber of my sleep ! 

And force me not my vow to keep, 

Nor stay to tune thy airy harp. 

As though thou play'st with any sharp. 

Dull bird ! thy simple touching strain 
Imparts more truth than I proclaim ; — 
For I have heard that from thy note 
The very best musicians quote ! 
That all the music doth depend 
Upon the sounds that natures lend. 

How now ! for this audacious bird 
Can I forgive the cheek bestirred. 
If notes that charm this ear of mine 
But signify what has been thine? 

And yet I ne'er can wear the ore, 
Though the diamond be its core ; — 
So I reject thy serenade, 
Although it has a Mozart made. 



ARE WE PULLING OTHERS DOWN. 

In this world of fleeting chances, 

Where we all desire renown. 
Do we thrive by mean advances. 

Are we pulling others down? 



30 

Did you gain your place by merit, 

Have you worked on honest ground ; — 

Unassuming is the ferret, 
Are you pulling others down? 

Are you sure you were elected, 
Do you own the envied crown ; — 

Have you craft and fraud rejected, 
Are you pulling others down ? 

Did you win your love by fairness, 
Was your suit with truth profound ; — 

Have you left no heart in sadness, 
Are you pulling others down ? 

In this world so great with pleasure, 
Are you spreadin-g cares around ; — 

Have you crushed some struggling creature, 
Are you pulling others down ? 

Have you felt the pangs of hunger, 

Do you look for true renown ? 
Rise by helping one another. 

Love can never pull you down ! 

Lift the fallen, soothe the wretched ! 

Let your life with good abound ; — 
All are great with this respected, 

None shall rise by pulling down ! 



Alone in thought and meditation, 
Brooding- over the wasted past. 

Regretting all my hasty actions. 
Promising it will be the last. 

Haunted by a reproachful vision, 
Fearful to-morrow grants no change, 

I long for the earth's quiet dwelling 
And departure from life's dark range. 



31 



And I gaze upon the lamp-lit picture 
That hangs suspended on the wall, 

The great and only Napoleon, 
Prolific in his sad downfall ! 

As I look into his downcast face, 
Neglected in his rock-bound seat, 

Looking out into the ocean, 
Another " Waterloo " beyond retreat ! 

My hopes seem to be growing brighter. 

For a soldier's in the room ! 
And my cares are lifting from me 

In the great Napoleon's gloom ' 

And who cannot look about them. 

No matter how bowed down with care, 

And always find alleviation. 
In another's far greater share ? 



We lingered by the shaded rock, 
Beneath the wide-spread tree ; — 

A resting there to dream and talk 
And tented thoughts to free. 

We saw the day's declining light, 
Steal softly from our view ; — 

And felt the cool and quiet night 
Had bid our cares adieu. 

Oh ! thou calm and rapturous spot. 
Had minds thy peaceful store ; — 

Sweet and lasting would be their lot. 
How great their earthly lore. 

Just here an evening bird did sing, 
In vain we tried to end the rhyme ;- 

But gave it up with quite a sting. 
And skipped before mosquito time. 



32 



TO A HELIOTROPE. 

Stay, guest within my chamber, 
Welcome to the place you hold, 

As are the thoughts you render 
To the dwelling of my soul. 

Sweet reminder of a Being, 
Stay, and in thy meekly way, 

Still retain to earth a seeming, 
Warmed by more than Heaven's ray. 



SHIPS THAT NEVER SAIL. 

In my hours of needed leisure, 
Sad wiih life that seems to slave. 

Ethereal tends my pleasure 
Though my fetters bid me stay ! 

Thoughts alike are going, coming, 
Building ships that never sail ! 

Coursing rivers never flowing, 
Making time an idle tale ! 

Though vain are all my fancies 
Scarcely uttered into thought ; — 

Yet the beauty of a flower 
Is a painted daub on cloth. 

Softly, then, with your reflection, 
On this poorly metered line ; — 

'Tis a chord of my affection 
Slowly coming into time ! 

God may make and rule the ocean, 
Man, the ships that he can scale ; — 

But forever my creation 
Be the ships that never sail. 



33 



THE DYING GULL. 

Oft hast thou soared in dizzy flight, 

But now thy course deludes thy sight ; — 

And boldly plunged into the main 

That chills thy heart, that yields the pain. 

Poor bird ! kind death hath hushed thine ear 

To those who know thou art so dear ; — 

Who from the cliff, that fronts the sea, 

Call, call, in vain, in vain for thee ! 

And now, thy mate moves o'er thy head 

To turn in swiftness from the dead ;— 

For death's last sleep hath closed thine eye, 

And the great waves that pass thee by 

Murmur a sad dirge on the way, 

For a spirit hath flown away. 



I saunter by the coming tide, 
Alone upon the sea-strewn shore. 

And yet forever at my side 
Seems a spirit wandering o'er. 

The cold dull thud of the sea 

Beguiles me with that sweeter lay, 

That touched our souls in harmony 
And moved our hearts but in one way. 

I linger by the familiar seat 
Where oft I named the stars above, 

And there, again, thy thoughtless retreat 
But moves me to thee in my love. 

O soul ! art thou forever gone. 

Or dost thou sometimes seem with me ? 
And do I sit but here alone 

Or am I on the shore with thee ? 



34 



THE BROOK. 

Upon thy banks, O, babbling stream, 
I learned and loved to idly dream ; — 
By thee I passed the hours of day 
In rudely dreaming time away. 

Listening to thy idle song ! 

Dreaming as it sallied on, * 

To the little maid with leaky cup 

Who climbs the rock to catch a sup. 

O ! blithesome brook, how like my dream 
Is thy noisy, prattling stream ! 
Flowing o'er the golden sand 
On to its fall so near at hand. 

Though ere so vain, the fevered brow 
Doth find a balm within thy flow ; — 
And thou. Oh ! dream, in youth so vain, 
Yieldeth hours to my life again. 



3 



Sing, little birds upon the branches. 
Merry warblers of the spring ; — 

Pleasing to me the varied fancies 
Thou art yearly wont to bring. 

Refreshing now, thy spring time chirrup, 

In the city's noisy din, 
As is the cooling breeze that prancing 

Marks with spray the river's brim- 
Perplexed with cares that seem to weary. 

I yearn for thy freedom more ! 
And that which I value so dearly 

Is but least of all thy store. 



35 



TO A TEA-POT. 



Dull urn, like harper of the self-same tune 
That promotes a charm to the old maid's doom ! 
Methinks the abler bards have failed to sing 
Of such as thee, meek inferior thing ; — 
And yet, neglecting thee within their verse 
But proves thy gain was with the reverse. 
For left to the elderly virgin's tongue 
Thou hast, throughout the world already sung, 
With note more pleasing to the general ear 
Than sweeter strains, no matter how they veer. 
For who has not mused o'er the steaming pot, 
While sweeter strains remain unsought? 
Yes, many a poet has sung and gone 
While thy dull unmetered hum goes on ! 
Old maids ! beware ! I warn attend the urn. 
For poets soon may have their sumptuous turn 
And vie with far more sweeter strains 
Than thy simple, hissing urn proclaims. 



36 



1 



The moon beams forth in grandeur, 
As I in my chamber sit ; — 

And night is bathed in brightness 
While my humble room is lit. 

The world 's abed and sleeping 
And the midnight guard moves on 

While I my vigil keeping 
With the old rejected song ! 

For poets live and vanquish 

Like the shadows of a night ; — 

They sing, and starve, and languish, 
While the world is ever bright. 

An attic and a rag-heap 

Tells where they sung and died ; — 
And Muses paid their visits 

Where cities point with pride ! 

And this is true distinction, 
And still the ready fate ;— 

For Muses court starvation 
While fools grow fat with state. 



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